


No Safe Place For My Mind

by Milliesarah16



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Decisions, Bad Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Demons, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Established Relationship, Experimental Style, F/F, Gore, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Dreams, Internal Conflict, Internal Demon, Mild Gore, Murder, Murder Wives, Murderers, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Seulrene, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, Visions in dreams, Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milliesarah16/pseuds/Milliesarah16
Summary: It only takes a guilty mind to figure out what you are...
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Kang Seulgi
Kudos: 5





	No Safe Place For My Mind

She needs help.

She’s slipping away.

Falling deeper and deeper into the unwanted crevices, left open to the world to cause damage that cannot be undone.

A heavy mass of swirling shades sucks Irene into its physical manipulation; her body moving against her command – step by step, closer and closer – into the smooth light at the end of the tunnel.

Greys, blacks and whites mix in her vision, hypnotising her mind. Irene’s irises – no longer their glorious hazel complexion – transform the vortex, of nauseating twists and turns, into patterns that bewilder the eye of the beholder. With every echoing thud, created by her heavy feet – weighed down by a multitude of emotions – a strange reality enters her mind.

Irene becomes overwhelmed, noticing the vortex retreating – in a sort of panic that is almost… human; no longer wandering with an obscured rationality, like a moth being drawn to a flame. It begins to grow clear to the girl, that she’s in her bed no more; no bedroom in sight, no window reflecting the moon’s pale light in a beam across her face… no bedside table adorned with a lone framed photograph – her beloved’s face a ray of sunshine, brighter than the rest – glass glinting with the light of the moon; displaying the well-kept timepiece.

No. A reality familiar to her no longer exists.

A canvas of white, dotted with handprints varying in shades of grey through to black, litter the high walls surrounding Irene. The girl shudders at the image, gaze darting between the sides of the box she’s found herself trapped within. Breath quickening, she runs an unsteady, sweat coated hand through the smooth locks of her ash blonde hair.

Needing to regain control, Irene slows her thoughts – taking deeper breaths – to measure the speed of her own pulsing heart; the organ’s harsh beating, against her rattling ribcage, growing weaker and weaker until her twiddling hands are, once again, loose at her sides. Upon her finger tips coming into contact with the bare skin of her thigh, Irene notices a chill that could never be felt against a clothed body.

She is completely bare to the world, yet she can find no capacity to care. 

Relaxed enough to use her mind, an instinctive impulse pushes the girl towards the nearest wall; a stray hand rising in front of Irene’s trembling form, staying there until her splayed palm covers one of the prints before her.

Whoever had made the impression had petite fingers as well as a skinny palm; filling the blonde woman with sense of familiarity that she failed to interpret.

It annoyed her.

Contradicting Irene’s expectations, nothing occurred upon the brief contact, prompting a temporary frown to contort the girl’s face in a way that was far from pleasant. Forgetting her sudden distaste, her gaze hones in on the ink coating the underside of her hand, questioning who may have ventured into this empty reality, to create the warm prints with a freshness that had been left behind.

“Irene.” A hollow whisper floats past her ear, the shock left over posing the question whether the girl truly heard her name, or if her she’d conjured the voice within her state of confusion.

Now consumed by caution, the bare blonde spins her body – ready and waiting to confront the owner of that sweet tone – only to come face to face with her own image; staring back at her from the full-body mirror, positioned not too far away from herself, amongst the blank scenery surrounding it. She sees the face of someone drenched with anger – refusing to move – with her muscles tense and on edge, waiting for the dread to begin its torment within. Irene notes, with mild repulsion, that her naked body comes in and out of focus; in sporadic moments of being pristine and clear, to blurred and contorted.

After the seconds of being unable to see herself, Irene’s figure returns; only this time her porcelain skin is splattered with red. Streaks cover her from head to toe, the ends of her wavy locks of blonde hair appear to have been dipped in the liquid, and her hands drip the scarily familiar fluid onto the now tainted floor below her.

Eyes widening, at the sudden noticeable metal tang scented in the air, her fingers scramble to scrub away the stains – attempting to remove all colour from her body – yet, despite her efforts, the marks remain; having grown stronger and harsher, whilst taking on the form of her fingerprints streaking, with obvious desperation, across her image.

With renewed enthusiasm the scrambling continues, as she locks eyes with the smirking woman, wearing her face, in the mirror. Frustrated tears begin to fall – leaving clean trails through the blood on her cheeks – as the girl finally glances down at her body, noticing nothing but smooth, toned muscles, untainted by the sins of evil that continue to mock her where she stands.

“W-What… What is this!?” She yells, teeth gritted with diminishing patience. Her bloodshot eyes snap up, glaring negative promises in the direction of the cackling demon hidden within her own skin.

“You know your own tainted soul. There’s no need relive the suffering you once bestowed upon another.” A foul, hissing voice echoes in the quiet; a serpent tongue slithering past her own cracked, smirking lips before her reflection’s hands come up to the face staring back at the trembling girl. The reflection’s fingers cut through the skin beneath its chin – allowing the trickle of blood to mix with the rest – before a gut-retching _rip_ follows the unhesitating picture of witnessing her own face being ripped away. Irene opens her mouth to scream, yet nothing but silence follows, as a skull – marred with jagged pieces of flesh – looks directly at her. A cackling laugh pierces through the air, as the blonde stares – frightened beyond imagination – into the never-ending darkness where her eyes used to be.

Stunned into a paralysed state, the girl can do nothing but plead for help – voice finally coming through – even as the blood mangled figure lunges towards her. All Irene can do, out of fearful instinct, is clamp her eyes shut out of resistance towards the stabbing pain thrumming through the back of her mind.

A moment passes.

Then another.

And another.

Willing away the now overwhelming headache, the blonde’s eyes flutter open with caution; a loud sigh of relief escaping from her, upon the dimly lit enclosed room that’s providing a pleasant sight for the relieved female. 

Managing to stand on wobbly legs – wondering how she ended up on the ground – Irene places her sweating hands to her knees, hunching over with a despairing groan as she refrains from spilling her stomach contents all over the concrete floor. Tightening her grip, as the blonde attempts to grasp control of the situation, her still naked figure straightens as she takes in her foreign surroundings.

The room is dark, yet somewhat light at the same time. An unknown source giving a shadowed appearance to the dampened walls around her. Everywhere she turns the room becomes more empty; nothing seems to be trapped in here with her – no bed, no chairs, nothing – which does little to ease the quenching in her already nauseated stomach. Despite the scarce environment, nothing is clean. The walls are caked, from top to bottom, in rotting wall paper; the ceiling looks three-seconds away from collapsing on her, judging by the black patches of mould covering the entirety of unstable plaster barely hanging from above.

In addition to the rot all around, the smell it’s emitting certainly outweighs everything else. It reminds Irene of the glass of water she accidentally left out longer than two weeks. The familiarity that had dwindled earlier finally returns; ensuring that all her nerves are set on edge.

She knows that she needs to get out of here...

…Now.

The girl’s legs move before her mind comprehends what she’s doing. Legs a blur and hair flapping behind her, Irene sprints as if her life depends on it; through the once invisible hallway no longer shielded by the dark.

Heart beating fast and her mouth wide with gasping breaths, Irene watches as the corridor draws on. Further and further she runs, as if the demon staring into her soul is about to grab her locks of hair and rip it from her scalp. Faster and faster she travels, until her limbs burn with exhaustion and a stabbing pain sends her sprawling against the floor.

“Urg… Ow -“ She hisses; writhing on the floor as she senses the trickle of blood flow steadily from the side of her head. Feeling further pain originating from the palm of her hands, Irene raises them in front of her face; wincing at the embedded stones and grit that have decided to become one with the red-laced skin.

All at once, a torrent of pain rains down on the blonde – perfect features now mangled with dirt and random scratches – as she attempts to gather the strength to carry on with her journey to find the exit.

_Pathetic._

The voice comes from deep within the crevices of her mind. It feels like a home she had but ultimately lost, and she can’t place why.

All of a sudden, Irene begins to cry. Screams of anguish rip through her throat, her damaged hands slamming against the floor – as if the action would rid herself of the pain – and fat, ugly tears spill onto the dirty ground her sobbing body is collapsed against.

_Ugly._

“S-shut… U-up...” The blonde whimpers, letting the numbness soak into her thoughts as the last of her tears are shed.

_Monster._

“I said _shut up!”_

Silence.

The girl fails to comprehend the exact amount of time she ended up lying there for, but it felt like hours had passed since the unknown, demonic voice eventually stopped plaguing her mind. It’s with the little strength remaining, that the lifeless girl picks herself up from the floor; crawling the remaining path that awaits her.

The dirtied blonde never picks up her head – ashamed to be reduced to such a sorrowful condition – her once vibrantly coloured, hazel eyes now glassed over and oblivious to her brightening surroundings. The walls steadily transform into grand swirling patterns, until a rich gold paint replaces the previously rundown scenery. The floor forms into a cool, reflective marble surface; providing a clear, yet tainted, image of moving clouds cloaking the burning rays from the sun.

The sound of heavy doors, slamming closed, is what awakens Irene from her dazed state of self-pity. She feels her strength rapidly returning to her muscles, allowing her to sit on her hind legs as she watches in awe as the skin on her palms patches itself back together.

Now more blood, no more dirt, and no more pain.

A sudden warmth around her torso brings the girl’s attention to her body. Breath catching in her throat, her fingers ghost over the shining robes hugging her frame. White silk, with inlays of shimmering gold and silver – that appear to move with every pulse of her heart against her chest – sits perfectly around her curves and compliments her entrancing olive skin-tone in a way that only the Gods could achieve.

Dignity renewed, Irene finally gathers herself from the floor with her bare feet padding around the cooled stone as her eyes reflect an out-of-this-world amazement towards what she’s been blessed with witnessing.

A mural of paintings – containing Emperors, soldiers and workers in their glory – move around within the confines of the walls, with scenes depicting vast grass lands and pristine waters, peasant villages ripe with festivity, and a golden path surrounded by worlds of wildlife. The awestruck lady decides to follow the golden trail up a set of grand, spiral stairs – the banisters made of gold with twisting ivy trailing towards the top – until she reaches the end where she is greeted by a magnificent palace of white, hidden behind a smoky mist that parts to reveal the entirety of a stunning hidden empire.

Irene feels compelled to take the never-ending golden path towards the gates of the palace, until a pure white dove abruptly swoops down from the sea of blue within the sky above, before shedding its feathers to reveal the very woman that has held her heart since they day they met.

“Seulgi?” The blonde speaks with uncertainty; wondering whether her eyes are playing tricks or if this is truly the love of her life.

“Irene.” The woman’s face remains neutral, and her voice steady. Tendrils of dark chocolate hair are left loose to flow down her hips, to frame Seulgi’s emotionless face – the rest braided with complexity as thin gold chains decorate the elaborate styling – and her deep brown eyes remain the perfect contrast to her olive coloured skin. Her shapely body has been draped with forest green garments, similar to Irene’s own, that are slitted on each side, enough for her long legs to been seen as she walks towards the other.

“My beautiful wife,” The blonde cries; newfound tears of happiness trailing down her flushed cheeks. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

The other woman then stops, leaving a metre between them. Seulgi tilts her head in a bizarre curiosity towards the girl in front of her.

“My Love, why won’t you speak to me? Let me hear your voice.” Irene sniffles, reaching out to touch the beauty’s cheek, only for her hand to pass straight through the deceptively solid form in front of her. In a panic she tries again, and again, but to no avail.

“What is -”

_“Murderer.”_

There it is again. The voice from before, only this time it has a face.

The face of Seulgi.

_“Murderer.”_

Irene’s heart drops, “no.”

_“Murderer.”_

“No! Nonononono!” She clasps her trembling hands over her ears, yet nothing can stop the voice from piercing her eardrums. To her horror, her wife’s throat begins to be split open – by an invisible blade – that allows for the deep red of her blood to soak into her clothes.

The chant continues and the girl shuts her eyes as the voice grows louder inside her head.

“NO!”

Irene’s sweat drenched form abruptly sits up on the mattress; her matted hair flinging from side to side with every frantic movement of her head.

_It was just a dream._ She comforts herself.

_Just a stupid dream._

As she calms her breathing, and finally relaxes, it’s then that she notices the presence of an object in her right hand. Forcing her fearful eyes to do so, she glances down, to be greeted by a knife – drenched in blood – with her own pale hand clasped tightly around the wooden handle of the weapon.

_Murderer._


End file.
